Sales Call
by nakanaka
Summary: Oneshot Kyle Hyde/Rachel. It's been a long day; no, a long year. Hyde plans to drop his stuff at the Red Crown and head home, but maybe Rachel can offer him the solace he's been missing. M for sexual references, booze, and grown-up talk.


**Author's Note**: I finished Hotel Dusk a few weeks ago and cranked this out on impulse, just fixed it up now and figured I'd put it up. It's a really great game that I highly recommend to all of you! For those of you wondering if I'm gonna write more Wallflower, I am! I have a couple ideas lined up that I'm working on, so please stay tuned! For those of you here for the Hotel Dusk, please enjoy :D

* * *

Pink tinged what bit of the sky I could see through the gaps in the skyscrapers, marking the end of another long day. I had a long drive home ahead of me. Ed had me out in East Bumfuck trying to pawn off doorknob cleaners and automatic tape measures. I had some mild success, a couple bites and one middle-aged lush who tried to give me her number. I stuffed the scrap in my suitcase. I wasn't gonna call her.

I slumped into my old Chevy and rolled down the windows. Couldn't afford the automatic powered ones. Couldn't even afford to get my brakes fixed. Damn things squeaked after a rain. When I rolled up to the intersection, it was like nails on a blackboard. I felt a headache comin' on.

By the time I pulled in to the Red Crown, it was well past dusk. The stars were hidden behind a blanket of thick, dark clouds, the kind that looked ready to burst any minute. Now I'm not a man of faith, but I get why the first man looked up at these kind of storm clouds and saw God. My umbrella had more holes 'n a slice o' Swiss, so I hoped the rain would hold off until I got home. Last thing I needed was to come down with a cold.

Bradley. You lookin' up at the same sky?

I stopped at the bar on the way home. I know you're not supposed to drink and drive, but come on, I needed it. The bartender knew me well enough to start me off with a cheap bourbon and cut me off after my third glass when he saw the keys in my hand. Just enough to get a bit of a buzz going without the spins. I drove slow, just in case.

The plan was simple: in and out. Drop off the receipts, exchange the necessary pleasantries, and hightail it home before the storm broke.

But when I walked in the door, the office was dark. Nope, there in the corner, a small desk light revealed a figure clickety-clacking away on a typewriter. The typing speed alone told me it was Rachel. Looking more closely I could make out her silhouette, bent over last minute documents due the next morning. She was overworked and she knew it, but Rachel wasn't the type to bitch and moan. I liked that about her.

She heard the door squeak as I closed it behind me and looked up. The light caught the edge of her glasses frames and the curve of her jaw line. The sound of the typewriter abruptly stopped.

"Look what the cat dragged in," she said. I could hear the smile in her voice, could picture it on her face: that playful half-smile that wasn't afraid to flirt even when Ed could hear. "Long night, huh, sweetie?"

"You have no idea." I ambled over to the back corner, running a hand through my hair. The booze kept me from getting too self-conscious, for which I was grateful.

"You and me both, Hyde." She leaned back and stretched her arms over her head. I couldn't help but admire the way her blouse clung to her breasts and exposed a sliver of skin at her waist. I wasn't sure how much of my face she could see with that dim lamp, but the bourbon gave me the liquid courage to crack a smile.

She smiled too. "Ed's got me doing these client report sheets on top of everything else. I type 120 words a minute and I'm still pulling late nights," she sighed. Slouching in her chair, she looked as tired as I felt.

"He works you too hard." I sat on the desk, looked at her over my shoulder. Had the balls to say, "But I know you wouldn't want it any other way."

She eyed me over the top of her frames, like she couldn't quite figure me out. After a pause, she said, "I'm gonna run to the powder room real quick. It's been hours since I stood up—oh, I'm stiff."

I admit it. I watched her go. I loved the black skirt.

A stack of paper sat neatly on one side of the desk—for her sake, I hoped it was the Done pile. The black IBM Selectric was well worn: her fingers had left smooth circles in the keys. She was a big fan of the letters F and R, which had rubbed right off. It left an unnatural gap in the middle of the keyboard, one that she probably didn't even notice anymore. Rachel had a way of working around the gaps in life's keyboard. I sank into her pleather chair, equally well worn, and lifted the corner of the paper she'd been typing. Expense reports. Fascinating.

The muffled clicking of her heels on the carpet alerted me to her return. "Hey, sweetheart."

"Hey, gorgeous."

"You are in a good mood," she marveled.

"Lucky you."

Rachel smiled, sliding the typewriter back and sitting on the desk. The hem of her skirt draped over her knees, and her ankles swung playfully against the chair. My eyes slowly worked their way up to her face. Blood pounded in my ears.

"Get all your work done?" I asked conversationally.

"Almost." She shrugged, her eyes wandering.

"Naughty girl." I didn't want to talk about work either.

"Mmm." She leveled her gaze on me through those specs. "How's that liquid courage treatin' ya?"

"Pretty damn good," I answered. I don't know why I was impressed she figured it out. Like I'd have the guts to talk so roughly otherwise.

"Yeah. But you know, I'm not that kind of girl." Rachel crossed her legs, and I watched her do it a little too obviously. "I didn't peg you for that kinda drunk."

"You thought I'd start cryin' on ya? Fat chance."

"'Course not." Then her expression turned a little more serious. "Thought you'd clam up though, get all dark and brooding. But I guess you're like that sober, so…"

"Dark and brooding?" I raised an eyebrow, but I knew where she was coming from. Cop instincts die hard. When you've seen what I've seen, when you've taken a life, that's what happens to you. It seems better to keep quiet and bury your secrets with the bodies rather than open your mouth and let those skeletons outta your closet.

I never wanted Rachel to see those skeletons. To have to take a life. To see what I had seen. To know what I had done. She was that purity I couldn't find in myself anymore, the clear ice in my murky bourbon. But she wasn't naïve. She didn't have to see humanity at its worst to know it was there. It didn't grip her nightmares, haunt her memories. She had her own troubles, her own fears. She knew what it was like to be alone. Rachel was at once a foil and a kindred spirit to my, as she put it, dark and brooding nature.

"Kyle?" The sound of my name jerked me back to the present. "Hey, sweetie, you OK?" She was leaning in, her face distraught with concern.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," I reassured her, but even I could hear the strangeness in my voice. Rachel's cool hand felt refreshing on my flushed face. Was that the drink or the flashback that had me shaken up?

"Hey. Kyle. I'm over here." I found her face; her calm, composed stare drew me in. "Stay with me, OK?"

"OK," I answered. On instinct.

She slipped off the desk in one graceful motion and slid onto my lap. Her weight was like an anchor, as rude as that sounds: it gave me something to focus on besides the creaking of the dock beneath my feet, the smoking gun in my hand, but that couldn't be, because my arms were wrapping around her waist. That's right, she was pulling me close, and I nuzzled my face into her collarbone like a kicked puppy. With my ear pressed against her chest, I could hear her heartbeat slow and steady. For the first time in years, I felt home.

Her grip around me loosened but I tightened mine. As childish as it was, I wasn't ready to let her go. "Don't," I managed.

"I'm not going anywhere," she said quietly. "I'm gonna take care of you."

She tilted my chin up and kissed me. Her lips were smooth and warm and incredibly soft. Then the bourbon took over and I kissed her back urgently, as if her lips held the answers I'd been seeking all this time.

After years of flirting, we moved fast. In a blur, her arms were around my neck, I was kissing hers, then her hands were tugging at my tie and I knew how this night would end. Rachel unbuttoned her blouse, and once I caught sight of the lacy bra underneath…to this day I have never undressed so quickly.

God, she was gorgeous.

* * *

_Zip_. I glanced over to see Rachel silhouetted in the light of the desk lamp as she zipped up the side of her skirt.

"Going home already?" I teased. The buzz had worn off, but I was on a new kind of high now.

As she turned to face me, I couldn't help but admire her figure. It wasn't everyday I saw Rachel in a bra and garters at the Red Crown. She tossed me a smile and grabbed her blouse.

"You really leaving?" I tried to keep my voice from sounding desperate. We didn't have that kind of—what _did_ we have? We had something. Believe me, we had _something_.

"You sound so disappointed," she said. Then, a little concerned, "You gonna be OK?"

Instinctively I reached up for the cigarettes in my breast pocket, but of course my shirt was off. I fumbled around the floor in the dim light for the remnants of my clothes, searching for the cigs. My fingers closed on the cheap cardboard too easily: it was empty. Shit.

"Yeah, yeah. Don' worry about me."

Rachel watched me. I tried to put on a reassuring face, but it's hard to look convincing sitting on the floor of your office in your boxers.

Apparently she thought so too, because she gave up buttoning her blouse halfway through and began picking my clothes up off the floor.

"Let's get you dressed, sweetie. I can't take you home like that."

I opened my mouth to—what? Protest? Yeah right—and shut it promptly when I saw her bending over in the black skirt. Did I mention I love the black skirt?

She threw my pants at me. "Come on, Kyle. Let's go home."


End file.
